


can't escape the magnetic side

by madmadeleine



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Library, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No Dreamsharing, Porn With Plot, so much more plot than i expected
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-09-22 08:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17056067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madmadeleine/pseuds/madmadeleine
Summary: Arthur likes Collection Management. He really really does. Even if he has to work with Eames, who can't seem to stop distracting Arthur and focus on his own goddamn department.In which Arthur is head of Collection Management and Acquisition at the University of Chicago’s Special Collections Research Center, Eames is a hot preservationist with a checkered past, and maybe there really was something missing from Arthur’s life all along.





	1. I was like a satellite spinning away

**Author's Note:**

> I am permanently living in the era between 2010 and 2014, I miss fandom a lot sometimes, and I get really bored at work. If my boss is reading this, I’m so sorry. Also oh my god.
> 
> I own nothing, I’m just an unrepentant plagiarist who likes to make her job sound more interesting. If this shit ends up on Graham Norton I’m gonna be mad about it.
> 
> Title is from “Unstoppable” by Lianne La Havas.  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever else Eames is, he’s loud and cloying and cocksure and takes up far too much space in Arthur’s head, no matter how at peace he looks when he’s working.

Arthur likes his job. He really, really does.

As jobs go, it’s not incredibly prestigious. Head of Collection Management and Acquisition at the University of Chicago’s [Special Collections Research Center](http://news.lib.uchicago.edu/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/500x315-scrc-MKenny.jpg) sounds a lot fancier that it is. Most days, Arthur just gets the undergrads to do the grunt work while he plans out their projects for the next couple months, plus doing all the reshelving he has to do in the basement of [Mansueto](https://images.adsttc.com/media/images/5720/a2ba/e58e/ce37/ba00/000d/newsletter/LIBRARY-PHOTO-01.jpg?1461756594) after the goddamn elevator crane finally gave up the ghost. But it’s a good job, pays well enough for Arthur’s small apartment and piles of books and occasional meals out, and it’s steady. Few surprises. Lift some boxes, buy some books, yell at some undergrads, dodge Saito when he comes around the corner with more potential donors. It’s a good life, and he’s lived it for the past five years with no complaints. Sometimes, when Nash from Archives brings brownies or he has a particularly clever work/study student or he reverently runs his hands over a book nobody’s touched in hundreds of years, he even loves it.

Today, he does not, because the new head of Preservation comes in today, and everybody’s already running around and whispering in hushed tones of awe like God himself is coming to work here. “I heard we snagged him from the Newberry,” Yusuf, the digitization manager and former temporary head of preservation, whispers in his ear as they were all standing in the conference room waiting for his Highness to arrive. Arthur manages to nod and keep his irritation off his face, but his jaw stays clenched. Yusuf winces. “You’re going to have to do a bit better than that once he gets here. It’s not like you have a reputation for collegiality.”

“I’m collegial,” Arthur hisses. “I can be collegial. Just because I like some space to do my work and I’m not fussing over Sarah’s new baby doesn’t mean...” He’s interrupted by a jab to his side. The new guy’s outside the doorway talking to Saito, he can hear Saito’s gently accented voice and something else, a bit rougher, but not less kind.

What the fuck is he thinking? He straightens his cuffs and tugs at the waist of his chinos; his job may involve a lot of dirty work, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to dress like a student. The door swings open, and a beaming Saito introduces what has to be the hottest man Arthur has ever seen.

“Everyone, this is Mr. Eames, our new head of Preservation. He’ll be starting next week, but he’ll shadow Yusuf until then. Please make him feel at home; we hope he’ll be staying with us for the long-term. Mr. Eames?” He gestures towards the other man, and oh my god nobody should look this attractive in what have to be the most boring slacks Arthur’s ever seen. They look like they came from the Target clearance rack, they certainly don’t fit, and his shirt is this disgusting paisley number that he’s somehow pulling off? Yusuf unsubtly coughs and Arthur’s attention jerks back to the man’s face. Not that that’s helping.

“Hi everyone, I’m Eames. Really just do go by Eames, no need to put a Mr. in front or go searching for a first name I don’t have.” Arthur squints. What an asshole. “I’m thrilled to join you all after a long stint in the world of public libraries, and I hope you’ll be patient with me as I learn how things work around here.” He winks, and looks directly at Arthur. _What the fuck_. Arthur makes a face like he’s swallowed a lemon and Eames looks away with a sideways quirk of his mouth. Arthur thinks Eames keeps talking, but he’s not quite sure over the sudden rush of blood to his ears. And his dick. He’s so fucked.

Eames is clearly uncomfortable with the oddly ceremonial nature of what really is just a first-day introduction in a conference room, no matter how many of his new coworkers are looking up at him with cartoon hearts in their eyes, so Saito smoothly takes over and lets them all get back to their jobs. Yusuf is walking up to Eames, shaking his hand, they’re talking until Eames gives Yusuf’s shoulder a friendly pat and starts moving. Over here. To where Arthur is. Arthur looks frantically around for an exit but all he can see is Ariadne and Yusuf smirking at him from the door. Damn damn damn—

“Hello, darling,” Eames says, beaming and stretching out his hand. Arthur takes it without thinking, starts shaking before he gets jerked back to reality. _Where the fuck did they get this guy?_

“Not my name,” Arthur says as he briskly extracts his hand from Eames’s enthusiastic (and _warm_ , fuck) grip.

“Well I’d love to know what it is, then, if you have one.” Cheeky bastard.

 “Arthur Levine. I head Collection Management and Acquisition.”

 “Excellent. I think we’ll be getting on quite well then, I tend to work pretty closely with Collection Management seeing as how I like my books in good shape even after I’ve handed them over to the desolate land of compact shelving.”

Arthur stiffens. “If you’re insinuating that I’m not good at my job—"

“I would never,” Eames says, mock-wounded, and holds up three fingers in what Arthur thinks is supposed to be the Boy Scout salute. Of course, now Arthur’s looking at his hands, broad but nimble-looking, cuticles ragged, and imagining some alternate uses for those fingers—

 “...run as tight a ship as I’ve heard you do,” Eames finishes, and Arthur’s not quite sure he heard what was supposed to be in the middle. He gives his head a little shake, and the corners of Eames’s mouth quirk up again.

 “I’m sure we won’t have any problems, assuming you do your job and allow me to do mine. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go back to the desolate land of compact shelving. I look forward to working with you, Mr. Eames.” He turns on the heel of his oxfords and walks away. That didn’t do anything for his office reputation, but it did shut Eames up, so it’s a draw. He hopes Eames is gaping like a fish; he’s sure that’s not the case. He’s not even going to look.

He goes down to the basement and back to the endless spreadsheets making up his current project. Eames works in Mansueto upstairs and across the way. He works in the basement here. There’s no reason for them to ever need to see each other, except at departmental meetings and office parties and the odd request for a spine fix or a slipcase. Things are going to be just fine, he thinks to himself, and he puts his headphones in and settles in for an afternoon of obscenely boring data entry.

Of course, that’s where he’s wrong, because he can’t stop thinking about Eames and his stupidly broad shoulders and even more ridiculous smile. It goes on all afternoon, and he doesn’t have anything more engaging to do than data entry, nothing to take his mind off arrogant coworkers and the headache slowly building behind his eyes. He sighs and decides to take his lunch. He pushes back from his chair, pulls his headphones down around his neck, and adjusts his waistcoat on his way up the stairs. Coffee. Coffee will solve this problem, and maybe some falafel from the food trucks down the street. Maybe he’ll just leave early today. Saito does owe him from that overtime last week, and nobody gives a shit anyway. He makes up his mind, buys his coffee and his sandwich, and walks home, whistling idly to himself. There’s no reason to let Eames get under his skin like this. Things are going to settle down; they never stay exciting for very long in Special Collections. Arthur lazily jacks himself off in the shower after dinner and resolutely does not think about blond hair and plush lips and those warm, capable hands, _maybe around his dick?_ _Yeah_ , he thinks, _like that, like that_ , and comes sudden and hard. Dammit.

 He finishes up his shower and puts on a white undershirt and a pair of plaid pajama bottoms. Normal shit, like he always does, because nothing has to change in Arthur’s life just because he has a hot new coworker. People get hot new coworkers all the time, and they do fine. He rolls into bed, plugs in his phone, and sinks into a dreamless sleep.

  

* * *

 

Because God is dead and Arthur lives in a cold, unforgiving universe, Eames has apparently decided to frequent [Arthur’s regular coffee shop](https://maroon-prod.s3.amazonaws.com/media/CACHE/images/photos/2018/01/09/Estelle_Higgins_1/83f1f76ee2cb09cb6cc05c60ba295b96.jpg). He grins at Arthur, holding up his coffee in a mock salute as he heads out the door. Arthur scowls and orders a cafe au lait with Irish cream syrup and a bagel and heads to work, clutching his breakfast away from the November wind. _Normal shit_ , he thinks to himself _. Just two coworkers, bumping into each other before the day starts, like everyone else in the world_. Until it happens the next day, and the next, and Arthur’s pretty sure Eames is doing this on purpose, but all the other man does is give him a wink and a broad, crooked smile before heading out the door just as Arthur goes in.

One of Arthur’s favorite things about Special Collections, and maybe the only thing that’s kept him here through five years, is that nobody talks to each other. Ever. It’s an informal but quite rigid unspoken rule: you keep to your work, you walk quietly, and if you want to hear someone’s voice you can go upstairs and take a desk shift or just listen to a podcast. It’s Arthur’s perfect work environment. He talks to Yusuf at lunch and nods at Ariadne as she’s meticulously rolling up another set of blueprints for Archives, and he sometimes gives his undergrads a new assignment. It’s very predictable, and it makes Arthur’s life so much more pleasant, so of course Eames blatantly ignores all rules of workplace decency and talks to him constantly.

“Don’t stare too hard at that poor book or it’ll turn to dust,” he says while Arthur’s zoning out at his desk, and Arthur’s so startled that he jerks and hurts his knee.

“Darling, if you drop that book I really will have to kill you, as much as it will pain me,” he says while Arthur’s shelving in compact. Arthur starts to choke out something about handling standards and five years on the job, but Eames is around the corner before he can finish.

“You know I always admire your work, darling, but isn’t sweeping a little below your rank?” Eames says, leaning against the wall. One of Arthur’s students giggles and he shoots them one of his more menacing glares. Eames’s face stays carefully blank, but Arthur knows what he’s thinking, the fucker, and he’s proven right when Eames takes a pointed look at his ass and winks as he leaves for lunch.

Arthur can’t stop him, of course, because the dark underside of unwritten rules is that they are, in fact, unwritten. He does take it out on him in staff meetings, using every ounce of leverage he has as a relatively senior staff member to poke holes in Eames’s ideas and even resorting to coughing loudly when the man finally does get a word in edgewise. Yusuf rolls his eyes, Ariadne puts her head in her hands, Nash just laughs. Saito diplomatically pretends not to notice, because they’re both very good at their jobs and he can’t afford to lose either of them. Eames remains impassive, but once or twice Arthur notices irritation flicker over his face before Eames can smooth it over, and Arthur smiles. Everybody fucking loves Eames, and Arthur’s the only one who sees how annoying he is, and so any time he can make the other man show any kind of petty feeling, he does. It stays professional. Arthur can keep it professional.

And he does, until Eames really comes up with a stupid idea, and then suddenly they’re shouting at each other. He doesn’t know how, but he finds himself standing up in the tiny conference room they’re meeting in with Saito. “Really?” Arthur says sardonically. “You acknowledge the book is valuable, you admit that the retrieval system in Mansueto can be finicky at best, and you’d still rather toss it in a metal bin and forget about it than put it in the vault? Please do tell me why I should trust you and your fancy new robot arm instead of putting a valuable unaccessioned item in the vault like a normal person?”

Just how ought I to know, darling?” Eames replies, and he’s standing now too, flushed under the collar of his shirt and _maybe he really is mad this time_. “I’m only the person in charge of preserving the book and who knows the most about its condition and storage needs of the people in this room! I’m certainly not Arthur Levine, god of Collection Management, but I think even as a lowly preservationist I have some authority here!”

“Well maybe if you’d use any ounce of the common sense they must have had to cram into your skull at library school, I’d respect that authority! As is, you’ve preserved the book very nicely, well done there, and now I say it’s going in the vault.”

“Your condescension, Arthur, is, as always, appreciated.” Eames rakes a frustrated hand through his hair and Arthur’s pretty sure he’s not doing it on purpose, but it’s deeply unfair for Eames to remind him of just how soft the man’s hair is at a time like this.

“Listen, Mr. Eames—” Arthur’s cut off by Saito’s smooth and firm voice.

“Gentlemen. While I do appreciate the spirited nature of this debate, I think we all have better things to do with our time.  Arthur, I know your instincts are impeccable.” Eames snorts. “However, I’m going to defer to Eames on this, as he is the preservationist: we’re putting the book in Mansueto, and that’s the end of it. You can do the loading together, if that will soothe any ruffled feathers.” He raises a hand at Arthur’s aborted protest. “That will be all, thank you. Let us carry on with our afternoons, and I’d like to never hear about this particular item again.  Can you two manage that?”

Arthur nods, and just avoids looking sullen. Eames is grinning like the cat that got the cream. Saito leaves, and when the door shuts behind him, Arthur whirls on Eames.

“I don’t even think this goddamn thing needs to be unaccessioned, I think there are no problems if a researcher wants to see it every once in a while, I think it’s going to get damaged or we’re going to lose track of it inside a month, and I think it’s all going to be your fault because you wouldn’t stick to your goddamn job description. Do you know how much of my budget for this quarter getting ahold of this took?”

“Fine.” Eames crosses his arms and steps closer to Arthur. “Let’s accession it then; nobody said we couldn’t and if you want other people’s paws grubbying up the eight thousandth psalter you’ve bought this month, that’s your own concern. But Saito said it, darling. It’s going to the automated system because that’s what the system’s bloody for, and if we put everything you liked in the vault we’d have to build a bigger library.”

 “I’m not quite sure who the ‘we’ you’re referring to is, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says. “If you’d stick to your own job instead of breathing down my neck, _we_ could get along just fine, but as it is, _I_ would like to manage the goddamn collections instead of having this ridiculous argument with you.”

Suddenly Arthur realizes how close they’re standing and how all the air seems to have left the room. He’s not sure when he started holding his breath. He’s not sure when Eames started to lean in like that. He’s not sure how he’s going to call Eames’s bluff.

Yusuf bangs on the door, grinning, and they both start. “Come on, lovebirds! Some of us need to use the coffee machine! Or have a meeting in here, God forbid.”

Arthur flushes and readjusts his tie. “I’ll load the book after lunch. You’re welcome to come if you feel the need to, but you’re equally welcome to do your own work for once in your life.”

There’s an odd look in Eames’s eye, almost fond. Arthur hates it. “I won’t be underfoot, I do actually have a meeting this afternoon. Not that I don’t enjoy our little chats, pet.” He opens the door for Arthur and then turns to go up the stairs.

“What the hell,” Arthur mutters under his breath. Yusuf pops up again, like the fucking prairie dog he is, and laughs. 

“I like him.”

“Of course you like him. He annoys me and you’re a permanent contrarian.”

Yusuf laughs. “You wound me, Arthur, I thought we were friends.”

“We are,” Arthur grumbles.

“Let’s go to lunch then.” Yusuf gestures towards the stairs and the two start walking. “And look. Eames is very good at his job and quite a lovely person when you get to know him, and I don’t understand why you not only won’t make the effort _and_ seem to hold a very large personal grudge against the man.”

Arthur sighs. “I don’t fucking know, Yusuf. Indian or Chinese?”

Of course, Arthur does know. The worst part about Eames is how good he is at his job. Whenever he’s bothering Arthur it’s only because he’s finished all his own work impeccably and probably gotten a decent start on somebody else’s. Arthur gets a personal demonstration of that when he walks by Preservation on his way back to his desk after loading in the psalter and doing some reshelving. Eames is sitting at his worktable, light filtering down through the glass in the ceiling and reflecting off the magnifying glass in his hand. Arthur thinks he’s fixing the hinges, tongue caught between his teeth as his hands, impossibly gentle for their size, work on the repair. Arthur knows for a fact Eames doesn’t have to do this, could pass it off to a tech or even a student given that the book doesn’t look too damaged. But the look of reverence on his face makes it clear why he’s doing this, that he’d rather be doing this than anything else in the world. Arthur imagines being the subject of such intense concentration and awe; he feels suddenly too warm and tugs at his collar. He has to go. Spreadsheets. Something like that.

He walks away just as Eames looks up and smiles at his retreating back.

Arthur thinks about that for the rest of the day and all the way home. He can’t stop, no matter how hard he tries. Eames and his gentle hands and the reverence in his eyes, and how Arthur doesn’t think he could have broken Eames’s concentration if he tried. He imagines trying, coming up behind Eames and pressing kisses to his nape until he stops paying attention to the book and turns the intensity of that gaze on Arthur--

Fuck. He decides he’s not going to think about this anymore as he cooks his dinner and settles down to read. Whatever else Eames is, he’s loud and cloying and cocksure and takes up far too much space in Arthur’s head, no matter how at peace he looks when he’s working.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this first chapter to see if anyone's interested in the rest, since I like working on this but also have real life stuff to do. Full thing is probably going to be around 5 chapters/20K, although I'm sure it'll grow when I'm not looking. I promise it lives up to its rating soon. ;)


	2. just gravitational

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Arthur." he says quietly once the other man's off the ladder.
> 
> "What?" Arthur snaps. Eames sees the unmistakable smudge of book grime on his cheek and suddenly forgets what he was going to say. Arthur moves closer. He remembers.

Arthur Levine, Head of Collection Management and Acquisition, is absolutely bloody insufferable. Eames prides himself on being a relatively likeable person; he likes to keep a workplace running smoothly and stay as low-profile as he can. That’s why he took this job to begin with, because of all the bullshit politics at the Newberry, and he thought he’d gotten away from it until he saw Arthur glare at him that first day and thought _Fuck me_.

In Arthur’s case, Eames thinks it might work best the other way around, but he’s flexible. He sees Arthur, with his ridiculous three-piece suits and crisp white shirts and huffy retorts, and all he can think about is shutting him up, fingers digging into his hips and his mouth on Arthur’s cock until Arthur can’t even remember his own name. How good Arthur would look with bruises on his neck, writhing into ruined sheets and begging for more while Eames has his fingers inside him.

He’s only had to have a discreet wank in the single-user at work once: the second week, when he saw Arthur doing Ariadne a favor and moving rolls of blueprints. Arthur laughed at something she’d said while he casually undid his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. It was the first time Eames had actually seen Arthur smile, much less laugh, and on top of it all, Arthur had the most adorable dimples. It was all a little too much, and Eames decided to take an early lunch that day. It took him an embarrassingly short time to come, thinking about Arthur’s whipcord body and perfect arse and _dimples, Jesus bloody Christ_. He’d left the bathroom with a little less dignity and a lot more cologne than he started with.

Privately, Eames thinks Arthur’s wasted on this job. He’s seen Arthur move, quick and precise and almost effortless, and he remembers that kind of grace from his days as a forger. Eames is legit now, and he only misses his old life sometimes. He misses the thrill of the flight out from a job well done and he misses the oppressive air of Mombasa between jobs and he misses living a life where the stakes really mattered. He’s losing his edge here behind his desk; he doesn’t even keep a gun at work. But he still remembers the type of people he liked working with best, competence and calm exuding from every pore. Arthur has that, but unlike his last team, Arthur wouldn’t take his cut and leave him for dead while Interpol was closing in on their arses. Probably. Some days Eames isn’t sure, but Arthur seems the type to leave the knife in the front and not the back.

Either way, he’s fascinated with the man, and he doesn’t think it’s so bad to indulge his fascination a little. There has to be some kind of benefit to an oppressively normal job, and he keeps the fantasies to a minimum when he’s getting himself off at home. He admits he’s not at his best in a 9-5 work environment, but that seems professional enough to him, and Eames can be professional when he wants to. He likes when he can disappear into Preservation for a while and actually bloody work on something instead of telling other people what to do, because he really is good at his job. He cares about the books, about their history, how far they’ve traveled to get here. He was an exquisitely talented forger, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a good librarian. Arguably, he has an even better appreciation for the finer things in paper than most librarians, even if Arthur won’t give him an ounce of credit. If Eames were a less easy-going man and Arthur any less attractive, he’d even be offended.

Fortunately for Arthur and unfortunately for Eames, both Arthur’s attractiveness and Eames’s temperament remain unchanged. Arthur might even get worse as November moves into December, with his peacoat and cashmere scarves and flushed cheeks from the cold instead of anger. It would be cute, in the alternate universe where that’s an appropriate adjective to apply to Arthur. As is, Eames settles for frustratingly endearing, and hides his attraction in plain sight by shamelessly flirting with Arthur every chance he gets. Eames did go to all of the sexual harassment seminars, and prefers his partners enthusiastically consensual, but he also sees the heat spreading across Arthur’s face and down the back of his neck when he’s chatting him up. Besides, Arthur went to all the same seminars he did, and should know wearing trousers that tight is always going to get a rise out of Eames.

Arthur wants him, he’s sure of it, and if his more unsavory career experience has taught him anything it’s to trust his gut. So he waits, bides his time, and bickers with the man over everything from which students they’ll hire to Arthur’s (endless) (mindbendingly boring) spreadsheets to vacuuming techniques. He’s pretty sure everyone else in the office either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, with Saito forcing himself into the first camp and Ariadne and Yusuf in the latter. He likes Ariadne and Yusuf quite a bit, but he can tell they’re keeping themselves at arms’ length and he’s sure it’s because Arthur won’t get over himself and stop ragging on Eames.

Eames certainly doesn’t mind when Arthur does it to his face (sometimes he’s even disappointed when Arthur’s in a good mood, which is really something), but poisoning the well with his coworkers has to stop. He isn’t Arthur’s bloody nemesis. Normal people don’t have those. He’d overheard Arthur and Yusuf last week at lunch, Yusuf joking and Arthur not correcting him, and it had hurt more than Eames expected it to. He’d still smiled at Arthur and bickered over something ridiculous, but it hadn’t any real heat to it.

Today is one of those days; Arthur is just this side of distractible and Eames is feeling too tired to coax it out of him. Arthur’s in the basement of Mansueto, putting in a load of boxes from Archives, and so Eames is in the basement of Mansueto, bothering Arthur because what the hell else is he supposed to do. They’re arguing about something stupid, not even work-related this time, and Eames is leaning up against the wall watching Arthur lift heavy things. It’s a good way to spend an afternoon.

“You could help, you know.” Arthur glares at him as he puts another box on the rack. He’s in his ridiculously prim waistcoat and shirtsleeves, cuffs pushed up to his elbows. Arthur’s interpretation of Casual Friday.

“I could, darling, but then I couldn’t enjoy the view, could I?” And what a lovely view it is, Arthur’s quick and firm movements revealed with each box he picks up and hauls into place. Eames thinks he sees some bicep and shudders.

“Anyway, you’re wrong. Mapplethorpe is profoundly overrated.”

“I certainly don’t know who the hell you think you are to be able to comment on Mapplethorpe and his tender portraits of the most stigmatized community of ‘80s New York, but you’re welcome to be a philistine about it if you’d like.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. Eames hides his smile with a yawn. “So I’m homophobic because I don’t want to look at a bunch of pictures of bound naked men when I’m flipping through my aunt’s coffee table art books.”

 “Your aunt has fantastic taste in coffee table art books, pet. Love to meet her someday.” Eames skims over the low-hanging fruit. They can work out exactly how Arthur feels about bondage later.

“You know what I mean.” Arthur turns back to his work and grabs the scanner.

Eames could pursue this, could get Arthur all hot and bothered about Robert Mapplethorpe, and there would be worse ways to spend an afternoon. He could go home, have a wank to Arthur’s capable hands _and his biceps, good Lord_ , and do this all again on Monday, but he’s tired, and so he just leans back against the wall and has a scroll through Twitter. He looks up at Arthur every once in a while, though, and when Arthur picks up the last box, some vestige of restraint Eames didn’t even know he had shatters.

“Arthur." he says quietly once the other man's off the ladder.

"What?" Arthur snaps. Eames sees the unmistakable smudge of book grime on his cheek and suddenly forgets what he was going to say. Arthur moves closer. He remembers.

"What do you want, asshole?"

Eames surges forward and cuts off whatever else Arthur was going to say with a bruising kiss. His hands cradle Arthur's head, a thumb softly running over the dust on his cheekbone. Arthur makes a surprised little squeak, but then melts into the kiss. He's beautifully responsive, starting to nibble at Eames's lower lip, and two can play at that game. Eames turns and pins Arthur against the wall; he can feel where Arthur's getting hard in those tight little trousers. Eames presses his body flush with Arthur's to show him he's not the only one. Arthur lets out a little groan that goes straight to Eames's dick, and Eames licks his tongue appreciatively over the seam of Arthur's mouth.

They break apart, almost gasping for air. Arthur looks wrecked, collar out of place, shirt untucked above where Eames had had a hold on his arse, lips kiss-swollen and shining. Eames is sure he doesn't look any more put-together. It’s perfect. Arthur's hands start idly roaming over Eames's chest, and Eames inhales sharply. He leans down and presses a kiss to the joint of Arthur’s ear and jawbone.

"Your place, yeah? Tonight?"

Arthur, who still hasn't said a word, nods. Eames hooks his thumbs through Arthur's belt loops and pulls him back in for another kiss. This one is sweeter: more tongue, less teeth. Arthur’s giving as good as he gets, moving his mouth in time with Eames’s, and Eames idly wonders who taught the man to kiss. He’s not unjealous about it, either, imagining Arthur in someone else’s arms. He moves a hand up to the nape of his neck and tugs at the few escaped hairs there, and Arthur sighs into his mouth. God, is Eames looking forward to drawing out the hellcat that lives beneath those designer suits. For now, though, they have time—it’s only 4 o'clock, and nobody's looking in the basement any time soon. He focuses on sucking a bruise onto Arthur’s clavicle that the shirt will hide, if only technically.

He's quite reluctant to pull away, but he does, and he knows the look in his eyes must be horribly fond. He couldn’t have hidden it if he tried. He runs a broad palm up Arthur's torso and smiles, squeezing the back of Arthur's neck.

"I'll see you tonight, then." He steps back, gaze lingering on Arthur’s mouth. As he's walking towards the elevator, he hears a hoarse whisper.

"Wait. You don't know where it is. 57--"

"5705 S. Blackstone. I know, pet," Eames smirks. “I’ll see you at 8.” He turns on his heel and leaves Arthur frantically tugging his waistcoat back into place and gaping like a fish. Tonight is going to be fucking excellent.

 

* * *

 

_Oh my god. Eames. What the fuck._

There’s a steady drumbeat of blood rushing in his ears as the clock ticks slowly, so slowly towards 5. He’s going to give himself a migraine at this rate. Fuck. He doesn’t want to give himself a migraine. Eames is coming over tonight.

Eames is coming over tonight. To his place, and Eames apparently knows the address. Which Arthur definitely never told him. Fuck. He is so fucked, isn’t he.

 _Hopefully_ , the traitor voice in his head whispers, and he grits his teeth. He’s just glad it’s a Friday afternoon and there’s no one here and almost no work to do. It had taken ten minutes of deep breathing and some very unsexy thoughts before he could show his face outside the basement. Any vestige of work he was thinking about doing is gone. He still feels Eames’s hot mouth on his, Eames’s hands in his hair, _Eames._ Who kissed him. Who kissed him _first._ Jesus Christ. He can’t stop smiling.

Yusuf can’t stop staring. “Arthur, did you win the lottery when I was at lunch? You’re smiling. And Eames was at work today. _Eames_ , Arthur.”

“I smile all the time,” Arthur mutters as he absently shrugs his peacoat onto his shoulders and winds his scarf around his neck. “Eames has nothing to do with it.”

“Sure, Arthur.” Yusuf is clearly skeptical. “Eames, the man whom you have described to me as your nemesis, has no effect on your mood whatsoever. You want to go get something to drink? Ariadne and I are going to Jimmy’s because we’re too lazy to go somewhere without eleven thousand drunk twenty-year-olds.”

“Raincheck?” Arthur asks as they head out the door. “I have, uh, a thing tonight. With a friend. He called me this afternoon. It was all very sudden.”

Yusuf thinks he should probably be insulted that Arthur thinks he’s this stupid, but it’s cute, so he leaves the man and his complete lack of a poker face be. “No, sure. Ariadne and I will be fine. This weekend?”

“Yeah, I’ll come over to yours and bring something to drink. Make up for tonight.” Arthur claps Yusuf on the shoulder and smiles. “See you then, have a good weekend.”

“You too!” Yusuf calls after him as he heads down the street. He thinks Arthur’s whistling. Whistling. Arthur. He shakes his head, rubs his hands together in the cold February air, and starts towards the bar. Ariadne’s going to love this.

 

* * *

 

Arthur’s apartment is clean, but not “my hot coworker who I’ve pretended to hate and actually kind of hated but secretly wanted to fuck for months is coming over to have sex with me in almost two hours” clean, so he gets out the vacuum and kicks his dirty underwear into the closet. The bed’s made, and Arthur can’t decide whether it’s sexier to leave it that way or suggestively muss the sheets. _Not that the sheets aren’t getting mussed on their own_ , he thinks, so he leaves it be and pours himself a glass of wine. Well, maybe a glass and a half. It’s been a long day.

He’s halfway through pretending to read a New York Times article on the omnibus spending bill when the buzzer startles him out of his seat. He doesn’t even check who it is, just buzzes them through because he knows it’s Eames and runs his hands nervously down his shirt. He changed after work, like he always does, and so he’s in a nice-ish pair of jeans and a navy shirt and thick wool socks because his radiator-heated building sucks. There’s a knock on his door, and he freezes for a second before he gets himself together and opens up the door.

Eames is standing there, with a bag of takeout in his right hand and a stupid grin on his face, collar turned up against the Chicago wind. He starts to say something, like the smartass he is, and Arthur takes two fistfuls of his coat and cuts him off. Eames makes a surprised little noise, but gets with the program and shuts the door, letting Arthur press him up against it and divest him of his coat. Eames breaks away briefly, breathing hard.

“Planning on letting me take off my shoes, pet?”

Arthur blushes. “Not that I don’t appreciate the enthusiasm,” Eames continues as he pulls off his boots and sets the takeout on Arthur’s table. “Do you want anything?” he says as he starts reaching into the bag.

Arthur grabs his wrist before he can take out anything. “Leave it.”

Eames looks up at him, and a smile spreads broadly over his face. “Whatever you say, darling.” He takes a step towards Arthur, like a cat eyeing a particularly fat mouse, and grabs him by the belt and pulls him in again.

Everything happens pretty fast after that, and soon Arthur’s on the couch, pressed under Eames who has one hand working at his flies and the other pushed under his shirt. “This okay?” Eames murmurs into his ear, and Arthur nods fervently.

“Yeah, god, Eames, it’s okay.”

“Good,” Eames says primly, and takes the opportunity to divest Arthur of his shirt and peel off his own. He grins appreciatively, and Arthur can feel himself flushing. He’s not ashamed of his body by any means, but Eames is muscled and covered in tattoos and just _big_ and _built_ and quite evidently the hotter party. It’s weird that he’s acting like Arthur’s the hot one here. Arthur doesn’t get what he’s playing at.

“See something you like?” Arthur says lightly, breath coming shallow.

Eames smiles. “Well, yes,” he says matter-of-factly, and starts to mouth a path along Arthur’s collarbones. His tongue traces the bite he’d left earlier and Arthur shudders.

“Tell me the second you want me to stop,” Eames says, and Arthur’s reply is cut off by a gasp as Eames takes a nipple and tweaks it hard between his fingers.

“Yeah, sure, but please don’t,” Arthur says, and Eames laughs.

“Happy to comply,” he replies, and starts trailing kisses down Arthur’s stomach. Arthur scrambles to help Eames take off his jeans, which land in a crumpled pile on the floor. Arthur’s just about the hardest he’s ever been in his life, already leaking through his black cotton briefs. Eames pulls back and Arthur whimpers at the loss of contact.

“I’m sorry, darling, I can’t take you seriously in these socks.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Arthur snaps as he pushes them off. “Just because they have a couple snowflakes on them—ah!” Eames is mouthing at the soaked fabric over Arthur’s dick and the sock debate is forgotten.

A lot of things are forgotten as Eames eases the briefs down Arthur’s legs and swallows him down. Arthur’s clenching his eyes shut because he knows the second he sees those lips wrapped around his dick with that gaze in Eames’s eyes he’s going to come.

“Ah, ah, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck _Eames_. God.” Eames is doing something with his tongue and Arthur’s balls that has him seeing stars. He dares to open his eyes, reaches his hand down to stroke Eames’s cheek. He feels the line of his cock in Eames’s mouth and he’s gone, hips involuntarily fucking up into the warm, wet heat. “Eames, I’m—”

Eames holds up a finger, grabs Arthur’s hand, and swirls his tongue around the head of Arthur’s cock. Arthur comes like a shot, stuttering noises slipping from his mouth.

“Yes, please, fuck oh my god Eames. Eames.” He relaxes into the cushions once he’s done, body limp and pliant with orgasm. Eames eases his mouth off Arthur’s cock and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Arthur frowns. “You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to, darling.”

“Never mind,” Arthur says as he pulls Eames back up for a proper kiss. The other man’s out of his jeans now, but still in boxers and hard as hell. Arthur snags Eames’s lower lip between his teeth as he sticks his hand down Eames’s waistband and around his throbbing cock. He moves his thumb over the head of Eames’s dick with some interest, and smiles as he feels the moisture pearling there already.

Eames groans. “Darling, I-ah-hate to ask, but do you have a bedroom? I was rather planning on fucking you through your-God-mattress and that works much less well with a futon.”

“Fuck. Yeah. Let’s—”

Eames grabs Arthur by the waist and practically hauls him into the small bedroom just off the kitchen. Arthur falls onto the mattress, breathless, as Eames methodically removes his boxers and socks and kneels over Arthur.

“Lube? Condoms?”

“Drawer.” Arthur jerks a thumb towards his bedside table and lightly runs his fingernails over Eames’s torso. Eames groans.

“Darling, if you want there to be a second act—”

“Yes, fine, sorry, just _please_ hurry up and fuck me.”

“Pushy.” Eames lubes up his fingers and tosses the condom onto Arthur’s chest. Arthur, who always shows initiative when required, tears the packet open with his teeth and rolls the condom down Eames’s dick.

“Jesus.” Eames is looking at him wonderingly. “Where on earth did they get you, Arthur?”

Arthur’s thrown by the sudden tenderness, and snaps, “Somewhere where people put their fingers inside you when they’re asked to.”

Eames grins like a shark and pushes an exploratory finger into Arthur without warning. Arthur hisses, and Eames draws back.

“You have done this before, pet?”

“No, Mr. Eames, I’ve been saving myself for you all this time,” Arthur says flatly and it’s worth the delay to see the shock in Eames’s eyes. “Yes, asshole, it’s not my first time, now please—”

Two fingers now, and Arthur’s feeling pleasantly stretched, the burn turning from pain to pleasure as Eames grazes his prostate. His hand lazily wanders up and down Eames’s dick, and Eames’s fingers stutter.

“Enough,” Arthur says, “just fuck me, will you?”

“Happy to.”

Eames cheerfully pushes inside him and groans. This isn’t Arthur’s first time, but he’s still tight, and Eames isn’t going to last very long like this. He looks at Arthur, a question in his eyes, and Arthur nods. 

“Yes, god, do it,” and Eames is snapping his hips violently against Arthur, hitting his prostate with every stroke. Arthur’s moans have turned into a high-pitched keen. “Fuck, Eames, like that, just like that, god.”

“You take it so well,” Eames whispers, wrecked. “God, Arthur, so pretty down there—” He groans. “Arthur, I’m about to—”

Arthur pulls him down and swallows his cry with his mouth, and Eames’s vision goes white, hips moving almost involuntarily up into Arthur, up and up and up. Eames opens his eyes and sees Arthur, grasping at the sheets with one hand and bracing himself on Eames’s shoulder with the other, eyes screwed shut, and he comes. He wraps a hand around Arthur’s dick and gives it a couple firm pulls, and then Arthur comes too, all over his own chest and Eames’s. He pulls out of Arthur and collapses boneless on top of him.

Arthur idly traces Eames’s tattoos with the tip of his finger. They’re there for what feels like hours, could be days. Arthur doesn’t care. He shifts his hips under Eames and Eames groans and raises his head.

“Arthur—”

“Yeah.” Arthur says softly as he traces the line of Eames’s cheekbone. “Yeah.”

“Was just going to ask where the bathroom was,” Eames slurs, and Arthur waves a hand down the hall. Eames comes back a few minutes later with a warm, damp washcloth and runs it over both of them before he drops it unceremoniously by the bed and sits back down.

“You can, uh, you can stay. Here. If you want. You don’t have to, but…” Arthur’s stammering and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t expect Eames to stay. He doesn’t seem like the type. It doesn’t matter. Eames can go. He doesn’t care.

“I will though, darling, if that’s alright with you,” Eames says easily as he curls his body around Arthur’s and pulls the duvet over them. "Stay, that is," Eames says into the shell of his ear, and Arthur has never felt so warm in his life. His eyelids are already drooping closed. Eames drapes an arm over Arthur’s waist and Arthur snuggles back into Eames with a contented sigh. The last thing Arthur feels before he loses consciousness is Eames pressing a kiss to the back of Arthur’s damp neck. He smiles and drifts into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your warm reception! : ) I am on winter break and procrastinating a research paper, so this should be done just after the new year. y'all are lucky I can't stand my family for too long.
> 
> enthusiastic and affirmative consent! get it, kids! sex is really unsexy when your partner's just waiting for it to be over. unlike arthur, this is my first time going above 'teen,' so please be gentle. do let me know if something was weird, though, won't you, darling?


	3. soft and only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, not all of your ideas are bad ideas, they’re just all chronically preposterous and invincibly stupid. And completely outside of your department’s jurisdiction, by the way.” Arthur opens the door to the supply closet and gestures inside. “We don’t have all day, you know; I think Patti said she’s going to be in here this afternoon and someone’s going to notice the door’s shut.”

When Arthur wakes up, he’s not cold. Strange. He snuggles closer to the heat source in his bed and tightens his arm around the man’s waist— 

Waist. Man. Bed. Arthur’s bed. His eyes fly open and meet Eames’s amused blues.

“Morning, darling,” Eames says in a sleepsoaked voice.

Arthur evaluates the situation. He’s clinging to Eames like a limpet, one leg hooked around his and an arm across his shoulder. There’s a pleasant ache between his thighs and the covers are almost all on Eames’s side of the bed.

This could be a lot worse.

“Mmph,” Arthur says eloquently into Eames’s shoulder. “Could still go back to sleep.”

“I’ve no objection,” Eames murmurs as he nuzzles his head against Arthur’s. “We may need to venture out for provisions at some point.”

“Mmm.” Arthur’s drifting back to sleep. “Got stuff in the fridge. Coffee later. Sleep now.”

“Whatever you say.” Eames’s voice floats above him as he sinks back down into the covers. Arthur tightens his grip around Eames’s waist and pulls him closer as he falls asleep again.

When he wakes up, he’s alone in the bed, arms reaching out to an empty space. He sighs. Why the fuck would he expect anything else? Eames is probably long gone, probably actually has a life outside of work and things to do that aren’t staying with his hookup and eating breakfast together like they mean something. He remembers how clingy he was earlier and scrunches his nose. Arthur admits to being a relentless cuddleslut when given the opportunity, but seriously? Eames? Will his body grant him no dignity?

He pulls on a fresh pair of underwear and grabs the button-down he’d discarded after work. Yawning, he pads into the kitchen, and freezes.

Eames is there, whistling to himself while he scrambles eggs. He’s wearing an apron. Eames is still here and he’s wearing an apron in Arthur’s kitchen. While shirtless and in his red boxers from last night. It’s too early for this.

“Morning, pet,” Eames says cheerfully. “I couldn’t find your coffeemaker, but I got everything else going. Turkey bacon? Really? At least you have real eggs and not some pithy egg white bullshit.”

“It’s lower-fat,” Arthur says defensively. Eames doesn’t need to know that Arthur eats egg white omelets on a somewhat religious basis. It’s fine. Arthur moves closer and reaches past Eames to grab the coffee. He’s putting the coffee into the pot and screwing the top on when he remembers that he’s probably supposed to talk to the guy who’s making him breakfast. And who also happens to be Eames, with whom he’s never had a conversation longer than a minute that didn’t turn into an argument. Arthur puts the pot on the stove and turns up the burner. Talking after coffee.

“Mmm, glad you haven’t succumbed to the American instant coffee vice.” Eames looks over to where Arthur’s fiddling with the lid of the moka pot.

Arthur’s had this conversation with every single person who has ever come to his apartment, and he rolls his eyes and says, “Coffee machines are expensive and the coffee always ends up tasting like—”

“Dishwater,” Eames finishes, and Arthur stares. “It wasn’t an insult, pet.”

“Right.” Arthur swallows and pulls the pot off the stove. “Coffee, then?”

“Love some.”

And so the morning progresses in fits and starts. Eames, god damn him, is a great cook, and the coffee came out unburnt for once, and they’re talking and laughing while Arthur checks his email and Eames makes faces when he thinks Arthur’s not looking. He keeps forgetting not to be hostile, and there are a couple awkward silences. Eames looks at Arthur like he’s grown a third head when Arthur mentions that he’s never had anyone stay the morning after. It’s . . . nice. This is nice. Around ten, Eames pushes back from the table.

“I want to stay, but—”

“You don’t have to say that.” Arthur rolls his eyes and stands up to see him out.

Suddenly, Eames is standing right in front of him, one broad hand circling his forearm, and Arthur’s not quite sure how he got there. Or how breathing normally works.

“Hey.” Eames tips Arthur’s chin up with his other hand and Arthur breathes out all at once. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. If I had my druthers and you didn’t get sick of me, I’d stay here all day. I do unfortunately have to keep a lunch appointment this afternoon. But I want to stay.”

“Oh,” Arthur breathes, and Eames kisses him, slow and soft. They break apart and Eames smiles and starts to pick up his clothes.

“For what it’s worth,” Arthur says slowly, “I might let you.”

Eames is somehow dressed, already, and looking impeccable. He grins. “It’s worth quite a bit, darling.”

Arthur pads over to the door to let him out. “So, uh, thanks. This was, uh,”

“Earth-shattering? Life-changing? An experience that has ruined you for other men?”

“Fine,” Arthur says pointedly. “It was fine. We should do this again, sometime. I’d like to see you again. If you want.”

“I do,” Eames says quietly, and he kisses Arthur goodbye and leaves. Arthur stands at the open door rubbing his chin for a moment, and then remembers where he is and how little clothing he’s wearing. He scowls and closes the door.

 

* * *

 

Eames is an easy-going man. Always has been. Finding out he liked men as well as women? No problem. Discovering the life-changing miracle of international crime? Might as well take a chance. Double-crossed and left for dead? Sometimes a man has to move on and take a desk job. Admittedly, he’s much less nonchalant about that last one. Even meditation can only do so much for the wound in his shoulder that still aches whenever it’s damp.

Eames is an easy-going man, but if he ever finds any of Arthur’s old boyfriends, he’s going to strangle them with one hand and tear off their balls with the other. Jesus Christ. He’d been there last night, and he wasn’t stupid. Eames knows he has a bit of an ego on him, but it was pretty clear that that encounter had been mutually fulfilling and they had enjoyed each other’s company even in ways that were not strictly sexual. It had been good. Eames knows a good thing when he sees it, and he knows Arthur’s a smart man. If Eames were any less good at reading people, he’d be a bit hurt that Arthur thought so little of him, but he knows the irritable shyness and general reticence that people learn after a couple bad partners, and he saw it on the couch last night and across the kitchen table this morning.

He sighs and puts his earbuds in as he leans against the wall of the bus shelter. Truly. What the fuck. _Arthur_ , of all people, thinks that _Eames_ is too good for him. What a ridiculous man. He smiles fondly to himself all the way back to his apartment.

He really does have a lunch appointment to keep, one of his few friends from his time at the Newberry, but he can’t keep his mind from wandering back to Arthur, and if he’s being honest, he doesn’t really want to. It’s stupid, he knows that—stupid to let this man take up this much space in his brain after one night and a couple months of pining. All through the weekend, he finds himself thinking about Arthur in idle moments: his dimples, how adorably clingy he is in the morning, how his voice actually can be soft and unsure. He’s not even primarily thinking about the sex, which is probably the worst part of all of this. He’s fucked, his goose is well and truly cooked, and his brain is off daydreaming impossibly sappy scenarios instead of trying to solve the problem.

 _Come on,_ he thinks while he makes dinner on Sunday night and tries not to hum The Cure. _Get it together, arsehole. There’s no way Arthur’s thinking about you like this._

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t like Arthur had a lot planned for this weekend anyway, but the thing, this thing with Eames is taking up all his oxygen. It had been a while, and the sex was good (more than good, if he’s being honest), and Eames had been so _nice_. The niceness is the worst part, because Arthur normally can’t stand nice people. They get under his skin and on his nerves, and so he cultivates friendships where everyone just gives each other shit, like Yusuf and Ariadne. Nobody has any reason to be nice to him. Arthur isn’t even that nice himself. But he can’t stop thinking about the gentle brush of Eames’s fingers under his chin as he’d said he wanted to stay, or the smell of eggs and butter while they talked about the merits of various coffees, or Eames’s scarred and muscled torso…

Arthur had forgotten about that. Eames did have a lot of healed stab wounds for a librarian, and Arthur thought he’d seen a bullet wound under the ink on Eames’s shoulder. Maybe he was in the army. Maybe he’s an undercover cop trying to bust up an Adderall ring. Maybe he just gets mugged a lot. It’s none of Arthur’s business, and the thought drifts away and burrows down in the back of his head.

He’s nervous, too, and he hates being nervous over things he can’t control. What are they supposed to do? When they see each other? Tomorrow? Is it going to be weird? Are they going to keep arguing? Is Eames going to realize that he just hooked up with a huge asshole and break whatever this is off? Not that this is a thing, of course it’s not a thing, but Arthur is shocked to realize he might want it to be. He has no right to expect anything of Eames, not after one night, not even after a really good breakfast. But he’d like to. It’s an odd thought, unsettling but not unpleasant, and Arthur puts it away while he rehearses what he’s going to say when he sees Eames tomorrow morning. 

Of course, all of his prepared lines desert him when he sees Eames at the coffee shop. Arthur forgets about the coffee shop, because it’s neutral territory—if they don’t talk, they can’t fight—and his brain generally isn’t awake enough to process other people’s faces before his first cup. But here Eames is, the bastard, grinning ear to ear as he holds out a cup and a pastry bag to Arthur.

“Here, I got you your weird syrup coffee concotion. Plus a cinnamon roll. Man does not live by sesame seeds alone.”

“First of all, it’s not a weird—” Arthur stops. Eames is already walking away, and Arthur’s just waving a coffee cup around at an empty hallway. He sighs and finds a table. He takes a sip of his coffee. Mmm. Eames did get the order right, and Arthur doesn’t mind the cinnamon roll either. He’ll be sure to complain pointedly to Yusuf later, and that’ll balance out the smile Arthur feels tugging at his mouth.

It’s Monday, so the day starts out with a meeting like it always does, and Arthur finds himself a little short of breath when he sees Eames across the table. Eames smiles, Arthur raises his eyebrows pointedly and takes his seat, and Saito begins talking about February’s exhibit. Arthur pays attention, even if it takes a little effort. Work. This is work. He likes work. And men who buy him breakfast. But mostly work.

The exhibit, as is traditional for February, is about romance, and this time they’re displaying love letters and romance novels of the Victorian era. Arthur thinks it’s a good idea—they have the collection for it, thanks to the perhaps-excessive generosity of a donor several years ago, and someone’s probably writing their comp lit thesis on this right now. He’s always liked the contradictions of the Victorian era, how the heart never stops being human even as the mind finds new ways to restrict itself. People are people, and some things don’t change, and seeing and preserving that every day is the best part of his job. He’s talked about this with Yusuf before, who’s pretty sure he’s just projecting, but Ariadne agrees.

Eames, apparently, does not, and is in the middle of a passionate argument for an exhibit on the marriages of past UChicago luminaries. Arthur breaks from his reverie and sighs. It’s not the worst idea Eames has ever had, but Arthur likes the Victorians and doesn’t feel like sorting through all the faculty wives’ dinner minutes from the ‘50s and ‘60s. He says so, and Eames says something snarky about Victorian sensibilities, and Arthur reminds him that it’s technically Arthur’s job to coordinate exhibits and Eames’s to shut up and help him put the cases on things, and suddenly they’re arguing again. It’s as natural as breathing, the way he thrusts and Eames parries and Saito pointedly checks his watch. It’s just like it always is, except Arthur has a sneaking suspicion that this time they’ll be continuing this argument in the supply closet over lunch.

As it turns out, Arthur’s right about both the exhibit and the rest of his afternoon, and he _will_ act unbearably smug about it, thank you very much. Saito greenlights the Victorian thing, and Arthur immediately starts happily rifling through the rare PRs, where Eames confronts him with crossed arms and a frankly ridiculous looking pout. Arthur pushes up his sleeves and starts rolling his freshly-stocked cart out of the compact shelving area as Eames trails behind him.

“You know, you could at least be somewhat decent and have a thing for the Edwardians, but no. Arthur had to have a thing for the Victorians, because of course he did.”

“It’s okay to lose every once in a while, you know.” Arthur wheels the cart to his desk and starts heading into the east annex, where he knows no one will be for the next forty-five minutes or so. Eames follows him and Arthur pretends to trip over and summarily dislodge the doorstop on the way in.

“You didn’t even think it was a bad idea, did you,” Eames says, eyes narrowing.

“Look, not all of your ideas are bad ideas, they’re just all chronically preposterous and invincibly stupid. And completely outside of your department’s jurisdiction, by the way.” Arthur opens the door to the supply closet and gestures inside. “We don’t have all day, you know; I think Patti said she’s going to be in here this afternoon and someone’s going to notice the door’s shut.”

“And locked,” Eames replies innocently. “Somehow.”

Arthur laughs and feels an odd sensation tugging at his diaphragm and making him stop to catch his breath. It’s the sensation everyone gets, when you know something’s about to happen, and that something could be anything, and it will probably be good. He’s tipping over the edge into giddiness, he can feel it. He smiles. Eames shuts the closet door, presses him up against it, and immediately goes to work on loosening Arthur’s tie. He sinks his teeth into the junction between Arthur’s neck and left shoulder, and Arthur lets out an involuntary little moan. Eames smiles and pulls him even closer.

Forty-five minutes later, Arthur emerges from the east annex, tie in place and shirt and waistcoat covering the lurid bruises across his collarbones. Eames follows a few minutes after, looking just as casual as he always does and with his hair almost imperceptibly mussed. They both head back to their offices. Neither of them can stop smiling.

  

* * *

 

That night, Eames tosses and turns and stares at the ceiling, and viciously hates every minute of it. The bed feels too small, which is ridiculous, because it’s not a small bed. Eames still feels like it is, and he’s going to pretend he doesn’t know why even if it kills him.

He sits up and yawns, running a hand through his hair. If he doesn’t get to sleep soon, it actually might. He rolls over and checks his phone. Blank. No notifications, except the bloody popup from Candy Crush that he can’t seem to turn off. He doesn’t know what he expected. It was pretty much this, except he kind of hoped that the Candy Crush thing would go away. Or that Arthur might text him. At this point, the first option seems more likely, and he’s been trying to fix his notifications for months. The second option is blatantly ridiculous. What does he even want Arthur to text him, anyway? They’re going to see each other at work in about five or six hours. He groans. Five or six hours. Christ.

He sighs, and decides to give up and text Mal. It’s late enough here that she’s probably waking up over there, if she’s not hungover or finally in jail. He remembers that Mal is bad at texting back and quite good at passing the idle hours of her morning with Dom, so he decides to wait until dinnertime in Paris and turns his phone off. He jams his pillow over his head and forces himself into a restless sleep. When his alarm goes off at seven-thirty, he doesn’t even mind, because if he plays his cards right he’ll be able to knock Arthur completely off balance when he’s doing folio shifts before lunch. Not that he cares.

 

* * *

 

Back in his apartment, Arthur paces back and forth, smacking one hand with the phone he’s holding in the other. He wants to text Eames. They’d exchanged numbers a couple months back because they needed to for some work thing, and they’ve never texted, and Arthur wants to text Eames. He grinds his teeth and texts Yusuf instead.

 

AL: need help. bad at texting. you’re in touch with the youth, right?

 

YR: Um. How do I even begin to address this question. Memes?

Do you need help with memes again? I didn’t think the clenched fist

Arthur meme was that confusing.

 

AL: oh, fuck you.

 

AL: i’m trying to decide whether or not I’m allowed to text Eames.

like whether it’s a good idea

 

YR: Eames! Who you definitely still hate and have absolutely not

had sex with.

 

AL: have you asked Ariadne out yet? i keep forgetting to tell her

about your clingy long-distance Canadian girlfriend, i should do

that tomorrow.

 

YR: Ha bloody ha.

 

YR: Just text him, mate.

 

AL: okay, fine, but what if he reads too much into it? what if he

never wants to talk to me again? what if he texts back???

 

YR: Well, if he never wants to talk to you again, it’ll make all of

our workdays a lot more peaceful.

 

AL: i’m flipping you off right now. you can’t see it, but i’m

flipping you off. i just want you to know that

 

YR: Isn’t that what emojis are for?

 

YR: What do you want to text him, anyway?

 

AL: that’s the worst part. i don’t fucking know. i can’t even

come up with a good pretext since i won the exhibit argument

 

YR: First of all, that’s concerning and you should go see a

psychiatric professional if you’re having trouble texting people

you’re not fighting with.

 

YR: Boldly go, my friend. Everyone knows he likes you. Even Saito’s

getting ready to say something, and I’m pretty sure he’d rather jump

on a live grenade.

 

AL: …

 

YR: Anyway, I’m going to bed, after I text Ariadne because I text the

person I want to talk to when I want to talk to them like a normal person.

 

AL: …

 

YR: See you tomorrow.

 

Arthur doesn’t text him. He turns his phone off, pointedly drinks a cup of chamomile in the hopes that the lizard part of his brain will get the message, and finishes today’s crossword. He puts on pajamas and climbs into bed. If he’s staying more to one side of the bed than usual, he doesn’t think about it. It’s fine. Everything’s just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some library notes, because I enjoy these things and you all apparently do too! Eames is, as always, technically stepping pretty far outside his role; the person in Arthur’s position would more or less have carte blanche with conception and setup for an exhibit. PR is the Library of Congress heading/tag for English literature. I have no idea if UChicago’s special collections holdings in the Victorian romance genre are particularly good, and I don’t actually think they are, but I know for a fact that the records of the faculty wives’ dinners are real. I really hope someone’s used those for their thesis, because I don’t think I can shoehorn them into mine.
> 
> Actual plot happens in the next chapter! Will Arthur find out about Eames’s criminal past? Will said past come back to bite Eames just as things are starting to go well with Arthur? Will Saito finally break and go retire somewhere with a beach free of squabbling librarians? The world may never know, and honestly, I don’t either. It’s gonna get tropey, y’all.


	4. help me piece it all together, darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is a lot of things. He is: detail-oriented, good in a tight spot, and an excellent librarian. He is not: a fucking idiot.

To Arthur’s surprise, Eames keeps talking to him. And kissing him. And correcting him, which, thank God, because Arthur might suspect a life-model decoy otherwise. Arthur screws up his courage and tells Eames he should come over for dinner, and Eames does. The next time, he even cooks, and Arthur discovers that Eames’s culinary talents are pretty much limited to breakfast. The sprinkler in Arthur’s kitchen goes off, but he’s too busy laughing and taking off Eames’s shirt to do anything about it. Eames goes and gets takeout, and the noodles get cold while they watch Netflix and go back and forth on the artistic and comedic merits of the UK Office versus the US adaptation. Things are, more or less, stable.

Not to mention they’re having sex. A lot of very enthusiastic and varied sex. Arthur gets used to the way Eames looks at him when he’s fucking him, how he wants to see Arthur’s face like it’s something to get excited about. He learns that Eames has a spot on his right hip that incites a full-body shudder when Arthur licks it. Arthur knows things about Eames now, knows how he takes his coffee and what Netflix shows he secretly watches, but he also knows the way he sounds after he’s had Arthur’s mouth on his dick for hours and his voice breaks on a plea. They disagree about art and literature and Special Collections’ new handling standards, but at least they agree that Arthur’s fucking excellent at giving head, and that’s really what matters most sometimes.

As Chicago starts to thaw, Arthur realizes he doesn’t really know what to do with himself when Eames isn’t in his apartment drinking all his coffee. He putters around his apartment, fidgeting with his shirt collar; he lies on the couch and stares up at the ceiling. He used to do things alone all the time, and now he just wishes Eames was there. He doesn’t even want to do anything with Eames, doesn’t necessarily want to have sex or dinner or an argument. He wants Eames to be there so he knows where he is, so that he knows for sure that Eames wants to spend time with him. He misses him. It’s terrible.

And then somehow, just as Arthur is starting to realize how bad he’s got it, it gets worse. He’s splayed out next to Eames, drifting slowly into sleep when he hears the sheets rustle. He turns his head to see Eames propping himself up on his side and turning towards Arthur.

“Jesus, Arthur,” Eames whispers, carding his fingers gently through Arthur’s damp hair. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

“What d’you mean?” Arthur murmurs sleepily as he turns over on his side to face Eames.

“I can’t be the only one. My skin feels like it’s on fire, like there’s always something under it, like your hands are the only thing that could possibly put a stop to it. My muscles are always tense, I’m always looking at doors and waiting for you to walk through them, I can’t stop bloody thinking about you.” He pauses, flushed. Arthur just keeps looking up at him, eyes still appraising as always.

“Arthur, darling, you’re killing me. You’re killing me.” Eames dips his head down to nuzzle at the hollow of Arthur’s clavicle. “You must know that, I don’t know what to tell you if you don’t. I don’t know what to do when you’re not there.”

Arthur grabs his head and gently pulls it closer, their foreheads just touching, and Eames is breathless. The moment feels like forever, he’s falling over and over and he could stay here forever because the torture is that exquisite. “Me neither,” Arthur whispers, and he leans forward to cover Eames’s mouth with his. They kiss gently, almost chastely, until Arthur catches Eames’s lower lip between his teeth and Eames flips him onto his back, breathing heavy.

“I miss you when you’re not around. Your dick, yeah, sure, but it’s you. I miss you. I can’t...” Arthur scrunches up his face in frustration and it’s all Eames can do not to kiss him until both of them stop breathing. He settles for running his broad hands over Arthur and watching his whole body shudder under Eames’s touch.

“Eames,” Arthur says, shocked by how vulnerable he sounds, how raw and exposed. “I need, I need, fuck,” and he’s too deep into sensory overload to say it. He thinks I love you, I love you, I love you as fiercely as he can, but he can’t make his mouth form the words.

“I know what you need, pet,” Eames says, gentle, so gentle. “I always do.”

And then it’s skin, just skin, and Eames doesn’t know where he is or his own name or why he ever considered being anywhere else. Arthur comes with an arching cry, and Eames follows, spilling all over Arthur’s chest. Arthur fumbles for the rag at the side of the bed, and Eames helps out as best he can with limbs turned to rubber, and finally he curls around Arthur, presses a gentle kiss to his nape, and falls asleep.

When they wake up in the morning, Eames knows that things are different, but everything is exactly the same. Eames burns the toast and Arthur makes coffee and they’re sitting on the couch while Arthur does the crossword and Eames checks Twitter and plays a couple idle games of 2048. He looks up to see Arthur meticulously folding the crossword and setting it on the table. He puts down his phone.

“So.” Arthur looks at him levelly. “Does this mean we’re dating now?”

“If you’d like,” Eames says mildly.

“Well, what the fuck does that mean?”

“Do you, Arthur Levine, want to date me? Go out with me? See me? Whatever the kids say these days. That’s what it means.” Arthur stills.

“Yes. I do.”

“Excellent,” Eames beams. “This is basically what we’ve been doing for the past two months, yeah? Do you want a promise ring or anything? I do know a guy who does those.”

Arthur smiles, easy and open. “I’ll settle for dinner.”

* * *

  
Naturally, this is when Eames’s life goes to shit, because it always must. When Arthur gets up to get another coffee, Eames’s mobile rings and the number’s redacted. He picks it up, turns it over in his hand. He knows who it is. He knows what will happen if he picks up. He answers the phone.

“So glad I could catch you on your day off,” a smooth voice says, and Eames’s knuckles turn white around the edges of the mobile. It’s Robert fucking Fischer, like he knew it would be, and he’s so, so fucked.

“What do you bloody want?” Eames hisses through gritted teeth. “We’re square after the Morancy job. You said it. We’re done. I’m out and I’m not discussing anything else with you.”  
“Did you hit your head so hard you can’t remember how you got back to the States?” Fischer asks sardonically, and fuck.

Eames does remember, if only snatches. He remembers the room they held him in, he remembers how his blood looked on the white floor, and he remembers the guard that threw him a half-full canteen and pointed towards the open door. Shit. He hadn’t thought about it, had thought it was luck and then never paid it any mind, but that guard must have been one of Fischer’s. Stupid, bloody stupid of him to assume any different. Stupid to forget that Fischer always, always takes his debts out of your hide.

He sees Arthur humming to himself as he brings back two mugs of coffee, and it hits Eames like ten thousand volts to the chest. He can’t stay. This is done, he can’t risk hurting Arthur and if he doesn’t do whatever Fischer wants him to do this time, Arthur will get hurt. Eames has been sloppy, hasn’t been thinking about his paper trail, and he wouldn’t be surprised if there were someone here already. Eames has been in danger enough times before, but he thinks about the way Arthur ducks his head down and dimples when he blushes and how he always knows when to take Eames out of his head and the way he looks when he sleeps, flushed and pliant in a way he never is in life. Arthur getting hurt because Eames was sloppy and careless is unacceptable, unthinkable. He yanks himself out of his reverie and returns to the call.

“Fine. I’ll do whatever it is for you, but then we’re done, clear?”

“Crystal,” Fischer says primly, and the line goes dead. Eames rearranges his features into a smile just as Arthur sits back down on the couch and pours himself into Eames’s lap.

“Who the hell was that?” Arthur asks as he idly laces his fingers through Eames’s. “You look like someone ripped apart a manuscript in front of your eyes.”

Eames forces a laugh. “Close enough, darling, it was someone from the Newberry asking for another bloody favor after mucking up the restoration he was working on when I left. Told him to sod off.”

“Seems like you told him you’d do it,” Arthur says mildly.

“Well, he can go fuck himself, but I’d hardly abandon the manuscript to be abused in his hands, would I?” He slides his hands under Arthur’s t-shirt and Arthur smiles.

“I will admit your hands seem much better suited to the task, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, and whatever happened in the last five minutes is lost as he throws his head back, exposing the long line of his neck, and Eames bites down hard.

* * *

  
Arthur is a lot of things. He is: detail-oriented, good in a tight spot, and an excellent librarian. He is not: a fucking idiot. It’s been too long since he had to hone his instincts, too long since he’s parsed through life or death situations with the desert sun beating down on him and two officers bleeding out on the ground, but there are some things you don’t forget, and one of them is how to spot when someone is in a corner and trying to change the subject. He sighs under Eames’s hands, grinds down against him and kisses him filthy, but his mind can’t stop working, because he knows Eames is lying.

He turns the problem over in his head while he inventories manuscripts at work. Eames comes over to take him to lunch, but Arthur’s too distracted to eat and makes an excuse. Eames frowns, but seems to believe him, and goes off to get falafel with Yusuf.

What the fuck is he doing? It’s ridiculous and paranoid to assume Eames is cheating on him, but Arthur’s not above being ridiculous and paranoid every once in a while, especially after he’d caught his last boyfriend with someone else when he was supposed to be on a work trip. This isn’t that, fuck, this isn’t that, and Arthur pushes back from his desk and goes for a walk. They’d gone further than that last night. This morning. This wasn’t that.

He goes and buys an iced coffee and sits on a bench in the chilly March sunshine. He’s 95% sure that Eames isn’t the cheating type, and the other 5% is mostly adjusting for not having known him for very long. Long enough, his traitor brain says, and Arthur sighs. He really doesn’t think Eames is cheating on him, but he knows the man’s hiding something, and he’s pretty sure he knows what. He was there when his last few relationships ended, there when the guy with the messy red curls decided to go find himself in Mongolia and the girl from the train station told him he was frigid and the guy who’d cheated on him shrugged his shoulders and just said Arthur was too goddamn inscrutable.

Arthur knows his weaknesses, knows about the things he can’t quite say and the 4-letter ‘L’ word he’s bitten back more times than he can count. Sure, he’s in love with Eames, and he’s pretty sure Eames at least likes him. Arthur’s just not that captivating, and it was stupid to pretend otherwise. Good enough to like, hot enough to fuck, but not compelling enough to love. He knows the drill.

So he goes through the rest of the work day like a ghost, nodding vaguely at everything Yusuf says and making sympathetic noises at Ariadne when she complains about how Yusuf won’t make a goddamn move and belatedly remembering to smile at Eames when he bumps into him on the stairs.

“D’you want me to come over tonight?” Eames smiles and Arthur nods before his brain can catch up with his body.

He stammers. “Yeah, sure. We can order in? I haven’t gone shopping yet this week.”

Eames looks fond. “Of course. Taking the bus to Jewel is so tragically difficult.”

“Hey,” Arthur retorts before he remembers himself, and suddenly they’re lightly sparring like they always do, with no real heat and more affection than Arthur knows what to do with. Eames cups Arthur’s elbow gently with his hand.

“We should probably at least pretend to do our jobs, yeah? I’ll see you tonight.” He gives Arthur an extremely quick kiss on the cheek and heads down the stairs. Arthur forgets what he’s doing and decides to hide in the conference room until five.

He leaves quickly, before Eames can catch him to walk back home with him, and blames his damp eyes on allergies as he opens a beer and takes out a couple plates. It’ll be fine. He’ll see how Eames is tonight and decide whether or not it’s time to cut his losses. It’s not like he’s never lived without Eames, although that world is getting fuzzier and more unpleasant by the day. Things will be fine. Arthur will be fine.

All that goes out the window when he hears Eames opening the front door and remembers giving him the spare key. The light in his eyes at the smallest gesture of trust. Arthur doesn’t trust easy, he’s lived too long and been shot at too many times to live otherwise, and Eames shouldn’t have to scramble for crumbs. Something small and vital in his heart breaks. He steps into the living room.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and Eames is suddenly quiet too as he sets the bag down on the coffee table. He must know, must see it in Arthur’s eyes—they both know. They both know what’s coming, and Arthur can’t stand to draw this out any fucking longer.

“Arthur,” Eames starts, and Arthur crosses the room and puts a gentle hand on his chest, cutting off the flow of words.

“It’s okay,” Arthur says, and he can’t look at Eames. He notices a coffee stain on the rug. He hears the bell as the Metra flies by. He feels how dry his mouth has gotten.

“It’s okay,” he repeats. “I understand. It’s okay.”

“You do?” Eames sounds more skeptical and less relieved than Arthur had expected.

“Yeah.” Arthur lets his hand trail down Eames’s chest, hooks his thumbs through his belt loops one last time. “I get it. This happens a lot. You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to make you chain yourself to me. It’s okay.”

“Chain myself?” Eames’s voice is shocked and Arthur’s head jerks up in surprise. “Jesus Christ, Arthur, how could you think that? It’s me, it’s something with my old job, I have to leave. It’s an emergency. I don’t know how long it’s going to take, and you don’t need to get wrapped up in it. It’s nothing to do with you, darling, nothing at all.” He sounds earnest. Arthur’s mouth moves before he can think of what he’s going to say.

“What if I wanted to get wrapped up in it?” Arthur’s shocked by the words coming out of his mouth, but what the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? “What if I wanted to come with you? I could come with you, I don’t care where—”

Eames turns his head to the side briefly, looking unbearably, unbearably sad. “You can’t. I’m not going to make you leave your job, and all my work shit is messy useless politics with government grants and even sadder cubicles than ours. I don’t want you to get tangled in that mess, not when you’ve got good friends and a job you love here.”

“I love you,” Arthur blurts out, and Eames closes his eyes and steps back like he’s been punched in the stomach. Arthur recoils, hands falling uselessly to his sides.

“Arthur.” Eames says, quiet, pained. “My darling, darling Arthur.”

“Don’t.” It’s all Arthur can do to keep the tremor out of his voice. “You don’t have to do that. Don’t fuck me around, don’t lie and give me some sort of scrap of hope before you vanish into the night. Tell me you don’t love me and go. I won’t make things weird at work or anything. You’re off the hook.” He doesn’t know if he can keep the last promise, but he has to. He has to. It’s all he has left. “I promise you can leave.”

“I don’t want to,” Eames replies, sounding like every word is killing him. “Arthur, I don’t want to. I love—I love you too.”

“Don’t,” Arthur whispers as he feels his heart fall out of the bottom of his chest. “Don’t do this. Just go.”

“I love you,” Eames insists. “Arthur, fuck, this means everything to me. Everything. But I have to go.”

“Why?” Arthur’s angry now, hears his tone hardening. “Because your old job is so fucking complicated that I can’t handle it? That I can’t hack it in your circles, that I can’t keep up with you? Because you’re the best preservationist the world has ever seen and the second coming of Christ and your world is just too dazzling for me? Grow the fuck up and break up with me like an adult, Eames. Don’t yank me around.”

“It’s not about you,” Eames shoots back, “not everything is fucking about you. I have to do something. It’s not because of you. I know you’ve had some asshole partners, Arthur, or you’d never use ‘okay’ to describe the shit I’m pulling now, but you have to realize what you mean to me. You can’t possibly think so little of me, that I would fuck with you just so I could walk away from the best thing I’ve ever had months in.”

“Well then, why are you fucking leaving?” Arthur yells.

“Because you’re going to get hurt!” Eames snaps, and suddenly the room is silent.

“You’re going to get hurt if I stay.” Eames looks at the floor. “I mean it when I say that. My old job, it wasn’t what you think it was. I do have connections at the Newberry, that’s how I got hired here, but my work isn’t, strictly speaking, on the legal side of things.”

Arthur is silent, eyes level with Eames’s, who takes the silence as permission to continue. “I was a forger. Still am, really, just a different use of the skill set. Passports, visas, rare books, anything you can think of, and I’m damn good at it. Probably one of the best in the world.”

Arthur continues to stare. Eames takes another breath. “I got fucked over on my last job, and I ended up needing a favor from someone nobody wants to owe favors to. I’d be shocked if he didn’t have people tailing you already, I’m certain he knows who you are and has thought up five creative ways to kill you in front of me if I don’t go and settle the debt. I can’t.” His voice breaks. “I can’t get you hurt because of a stupid mistake. I can’t get you killed. You have to stay away from me, and I have to leave you. Tonight. Believe me when I say that there is nothing in the world I want to do less.”

Arthur blinks, opens his mouth and closes it again. The insane thing is, he’s starting to actually believe Eames when he says that this isn’t a shitty breakup lie and he’s actually some kind of criminal mastermind.

“The scars?” he says. “Why I’ve never been to your apartment? Why I don’t know your first name?” Eames nods, mute.

Arthur takes a deep breath and heads into the bedroom.

Eames looks after him, clearly confused and too scared to say anything about it. Arthur ignores him for the time being as he goes into his closet and plucks a faded duffel from behind the suits. He returns to the living room and zips it open.

“I don’t know what you’re working with, I assume it’s more limited than usual? I don’t have a lot, plus I don’t think you could get some of these out of the country.” Arthur smirks as Eames’s jaw drops. In the bag lie two days of clothes, two handguns, and a gleaming assault rifle.

“What the fuck.” Eames can’t think of anything more eloquent to say. “Who are you? What is this?”

“Iraq. Three tours,” Arthur says briskly as he leans over to pick up his computer from the desk and remove the assault rifle to lay it gently in the bag. “Wasn’t a pencil pusher, either.” He stands up. “So don’t think I’m not coming with you.”  
Eames is floored. If this were a very different set of circumstances, Arthur would almost be proud of himself. As it is, they have to go.

“Where’s the job?” Arthur asks as he takes a measured look around the apartment and scans for anything that might come in handy. He picks up a pocket knife from the table and looks at it thoughtfully before putting it back. Eames is still quiet. He turns around.

“Well? Mr. Worldwide? Where are we going? We can get a pretty roundabout flight if we go to Midway.”  
Eames starts to speak, thinks again, and then says, “Jakarta. But we have to go through Paris, there are some friends I need to meet.”

Arthur hefts the bag over his shoulder. “So, do you need to pick up anything?”

Eames flashes his teeth in a wicked grin and opens up his jacket so Arthur can see the gun there. “I called in some favors and got a passport fast, but you might have to burn your identity.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow. “Kind of a bold assumption that I only have one, Mr. Eames.” He gestures to the bag again. At this point, there’s almost nothing about Arthur that would shock Eames. He could be an international assassin and Eames would take it in stride. Hell, he probably is. This is probably some four-dimensional chess courtesy of Fischer and honestly, Eames is kind of about it. He tosses the gun into the duffel.

“Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry this took so long!! Depression really do be like that, y’all. There is probably one more chapter left in this (maybe two?) but I wanted to put it at a place where it could be left for a while because, despite my best intentions, it probably will be. I’m on vacation this month so maybe I’ll get inspired? Fingers crossed.
> 
> Title from Bastille’s “Quarter Past Midnight,” which is a very Arthur/Eames song.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments/kudos/crit greatly appreciated, I’m not on tumblr anymore so just toss it all down there. One like = one prayer that nobody I work with ever sees this.  
> 


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